


Time is A Cold Wind

by mibasiamille



Series: turtlesoupstories [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 20th Century, F/M, Post-WWII, reverse canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mibasiamille/pseuds/mibasiamille
Summary: After his car breaks down in the middle of the Scottish wilderness, escaped soldier Jamie Fraser stumbles upon the standing stones of Craigh Na Dun. Desperate to avoid capture, he touches the stones and wakes up 200 years in the past, staring up at the ceiling of Claire Beauchamp's cabin with a bullet in his leg. As she helps him recover, he notices something familiar about this strange woman, living alone at the base of a fairy hill. Once he discovers her origins, however, he must decide whether to tell her the truth and, alternatively, reveal to her the difficulties of his own plight.





	1. Disappear/Reappear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bonnie_wee_swordsman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonnie_wee_swordsman/gifts).



> bonnie-wee-swordsman asked: What if Jamie was the one that grew up in the 20th century, and he met Claire after he travels to the 18th?

**By the time**   **his car had broken down, he was about a hundred miles southeast of Lallybroch.**  It had been sputtering and jerking the whole ride down the bumpy back-roads, and thus he should’ve expected its eventual demise. But this didn’t stop the frustration from coursing through his veins, the feeling of utter exasperation that caused him to slam his fist against the steering wheel; it truly as  _a piece of metal shite_ , as Murtagh had once called it. He scrambled out of the accursed vehicle, closed the door and ran straight into the woods. At this point, he had only one destination:  _elsewhere_.

He knew that they’d be after him eventually; Murtagh and Jenny had been prepared for it, keeping him locked away in the cellar whenever visitors came to pay their respects. During the entirety of the funeral, he was locked up in that dank, windowless room, wallowing in his own self-pity as others mourned just up the stairs. Despite how much he wanted to be up there, he knew that Jenny wasn’t keen on taking any risks–he wouldn’t fight her about it, especially in her fragile state.

There were times when he had regretted what he had done. His country needed him, needed anyone who was able-bodied enough to fight, and yet here he was, running from the law like an escaped convict.  _Although_ , he thought wryly to himself as he weaved his way around the trees,  _I suppose in some ways, I am **just**  that._

The more he dwelled on the idea, however, (especially now, as he ran for his life in the darkness of the Scottish wilderness), the less he regretted his decision. To be able to see his mother, albeit not for long, was worth the escaping, the plotting, the running… and not only to see his mother at the last, but to be there for his sister as she quietly–thoroughly–fell to pieces; to care for her when she felt she could not, as well as to provide for the estate and all of those who lived there.

_Not much good I’d be doing them, now. Running from the law._

Before he knew it, he had entered a clearing, the trees seeming to part just for him as he ran through the dark wood. It was then that he saw the hill.

He’d known the stories, of course: the old folk tales his mother had told him at night before bed;  _the Woman of Balnain_ , the folk tale of the woman who’d gone through the stones and traveled far away from her own land. The dancers, the druids, and the faeries: carrying torches whilst wearing what seemed to be bed sheets, mesmerizing and beautiful and  _magical_  as they swirled around the stones while the sun rose.

There had been children that had gone missing at the site, with a brief scattering of adults and, as far as he knew, none of them had ever returned. The parents and loved ones would send out search parties, put the faces of those lost in newspapers and on posters, but to no avail; they’d bury tiny caskets full of flowers, stuffed animals, clothes… all to remember the child that seemed to have been ripped from time and space itself.

Whether these legends and stories of the stones were true, Jamie was never sure. As a child, he had believed in them as one would of faeries and dragons and aliens in far-off galaxies, but as an adult…

He hadn’t realized he had stopped moving until he heard the roaring of engines in the distance. Breaking from his train of thought, he lunged up the hill in long, heavy strides, the intentions of his actions clear. Whether the tales were truly _tales_ or not, he was about to find out.

Upon approaching the hill, he noticed a dull roar, almost like the buzzing of a bee’s hive, that came from the center of the circle, crescendoing as he came closer to the tallest stone. Cleft at the center, the stone rose high above the rest, it’s granite face as menacing as some ancient ruin. Its warning was clear: death occurred here. But James Fraser wasn’t going to take any chances, especially if his life was on the line.

He took a step, then another, and another towards the stone. The bees roared in his ears, pounding in his head and causing his eyes to strain, but he pushed himself forward until his hands were touching the cold surface. The sound of gunshots echoed through the air as everything around him faded to black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **When he awoke, he wasn’t staring at the sky, as he thought he should’ve been.** Instead, he was face to face with a woman, her hair–a riotous mass of chestnut waves–tickling his nose as she was fumbling with the leg of his pants. What she was doing to him, he wasn’t  _entirely_  sure, and as he went to assess the face of the woman on top of him, a sharp pain shot down his left leg.

Her head lifted, revealing to him the face of an ethereal goddess. At first, he thought she was Aphrodite–for she  _must_  be, with a face like  _that_  and eyes the color of polished sapphires–but upon closer inspection, he figured she’d have been Athena: a beautiful woman with a sharp tongue and wisdom held in check. She pushed him back down carefully, her entire weight resting on his stomach.

“Don’t move,” She warned, her voice reminiscent of a matron in a hospital. “You’ve been shot in the leg.”

The memory of gunshots replayed in his mind momentarily, and he winced. They must’ve knicked him right…

His train of thought halted immediately and before he could stop himself, he was sitting upright, scrambling to stand. The woman pushed him down–roughly, but not so rough that it seemed malicious–and hissed through her teeth, “I  _told_  you not to  _bloody_  move!”

“Please, I  _need_  ta know; what’s the date?”

Her eyebrow quirked skeptically before she replied. “It’s the first of November.”

“The year?”

She was looking at him strangely now. Instead of answering his question, she leaned forward and looked into his eyes, pulling at his eyelids and prodding at his temples. Shying away from her cold hands, she answered the unasked question instead. “I’m checking to see if you hit your head; you might have a concussion.”

“Nae, I’m  _fine_ ,” he muttered, scooting away from her. He winced, however, when the pain in his leg grew steadily worse; nodding once to the leg, he muttered, “Besides that.”

A soft “hm” escaped from behind closed lips as she looked him over once more. Leaning forward to continue tending to his leg, she murmured, “How did you find your way to the faerie hill? And with a bullet wound, no less?”

“How d’ye”–he winced as she prodded at the wound with an alcohol-soaked cloth–“Expect me ta answer that when you havena even answered  _my_  question?”

She looked up from her work, a look of alarm passing across her glass face. “The year is 1743.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **He must’ve passed out again, for when he woke once more, the mysterious woman had finished cleaning out his wound.** The leg of his pants had been rolled back down and his shoes were removed and placed neatly by the door. No longer on the floor, he had been moved into a small cot placed in the corner of the one-room cabin, right beside the fire. Rolling his head from the roaring flames back to her form, he stared as she went about her business, fiddling with different vials full of herbs and various colored liquids.

“Blink,” he heard her say, not taking her eyes off of the vial she had been inspecting. “If you stare too long, your eyes will start to strain.”

Listening to her orders, he blinked a few times, trying to clear the cloud that had formed around his mind. She met his eyes a moment later and answered the question he was about to ask. “You lost consciousness; I’m sure it’s because of the loss of blood from your wound.”

He tried not to stare as he observed her, the muscles of her back contorting this way and that as she moved about the small table, examining the contents of each vial and placing them into different cases. As he looked on, he had a strange feeling that he had met this woman before, but couldn’t quite place where.

“I thank ye for your help…  _Sassenach_ ,” he stuttered the last word as he suddenly realized that he hadn’t caught her name. Carefully, he sat up against the headboard of the small bed and winced. “I’m sorry ta take up yer only bed.”

She waved a hand dismissively, placing the vial she had in her hands down on the table and making her way across the room. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she fiddled with the fraying edge of her apron. “Can I ask you a question? And please know, you don’t have to answer me.” After he nodded his assent, she took a breath. “Where is it that you’re from? Your clothes are so…  _finely_  made… you have to have come from somewhere pretty far from here.”

Jamie paused, unsure of how to explain any of it. How would he be able to tell this person, a woman he had just met, that he had fallen through time– _two hundred years_  into the past–without thinking him mad? Any sane person would, and probably send him to a nut house to let him rot in his own insanity.

After a moment of debating what to tell her, he reached across and reached for her hand. Hesitating, he instead picked at the edge of her apron as well, tearing off a few small pieces of loose string. “I dinna think that I can tell ye that just yet.” Before she could answer, he continued speaking. “But I swear to ye, before I leave, you will know the whole truth.”

She nodded once, twice, seeming to take his word as a good enough answer. A smile formed on her lips as she murmured, “I suppose that’s a gallant enough answer, seeing as I never asked you what your name was.”

He smiled, “Neither have you.”

Her laugh filled the space of the room, echoing off of the tiny walls of the cabin. His heart lightened with it, and a large smile spread across his face.

“Claire,” She murmured, biting her lip to fight off her smile. “My name is Claire Beauchamp.”

Something in his mind clicked at the sound of her name, spoken aloud– _Claire Beauchamp. Claire._  He had heard the name before, on multiple different occasions, but couldn’t quite place  _ **where**_. No reason presented itself clearly to him, for how would he have known the name of some random medicine woman from the  _eighteenth century?_

Before the silence became too prolonged, he reciprocated in kind. “James Fraser,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. Her face flushed red as he kissed her knuckles. “At your service, ma’am.”


	2. Shelter As We Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie and Claire reveal small snippets of their pasts.

**Jamie woke to the sound of stone grinding stone, accompanied with the soft hums of a vaguely familiar tune.** Though his eyes were still clouded over from sleep, as well as the darkness of the cabin, he could still see her silhouetted in front of the roaring flames of the fireplace, pestle in hand as she ground indiscernible herbs in a granite mortar. He attempted to sit upright and further his view of her face, glowing golden in the firelight, but he instead put too much weight on his injured leg. A low hiss passed between his teeth as his face contorted with discomfort.

She had appeared by his side in seconds, hands positioned at his back to help him sit comfortably; their eyes had met for just a moment before she turned to his bandages.

“Morning,” Jamie murmured snidely as she rolled up the blanket and prodded at the bandage, checking for inflammation. She looked up at him for a brief moment and smiled, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Instead of replying to the greeting, she instead inquired, “How are you feeling?” 

“As good as I can be, I suppose. Although I canna complain, since I was the one who slept in a bed.” He remembered when he had first laid down in it, wrapping himself in the soft cotton blankets, the sweet aromas of honey, lavender, and pine filling his nostrils.

Another smile pressed her lips upward, this time causing the corner of her eyes to crinkle slightly. “The floor is a lot more comfortable than you’d like to believe.”

“Och,” he chuckled dismissively. “I’ve slept on the floor many a time, _Sassenach_.” A small grunt cut him off as she deftly pulled the brittle dressings off of his skin. “And if I can help it, I’d rather ‘void it.”

A moment later, as he watched her finish her ministrations, he murmured, “Ye’re a kind woman, Miss Beauchamp. Wi’ a good touch.” 

Her cheeks flushed at his compliment, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly upwards once more. There was something on her mind, and Jamie knew it.

“I’m just thinking of my uncle,” Claire said a few minutes later, after he voiced his concerns. “I miss him... _so_ much.”

A pause. “How long ago, then?”

“It’s been four years, now. There are some times that are harder than others, but... he was the only family I had left. My parents died when I was young, about eight or so, and no matter how hard I try to find them in my mind’s eye, I just _can’t_ . They’ve vanished, almost--like they’ve walked into some vast, misted forest and no matter how hard I try to find them, I just end up with... _nothing_.” She hadn’t moved her eyes from his leg, but she had stopped messing with the bandages. He saw a lone tear fall from her cheek; it plopped soundlessly onto the blanket. “He’s starting to fade, too.”

Without thinking, he reached for her hand--similarly to the motion he had retracted earlier the previous day--but this time he stuck to it, interlacing their fingers and giving it a gentle squeeze.  Her head shook to and fro slowly, as if she was to seize control of her emotions again. Standing abruptly, she picked up her mortar and resumed her work, back turned toward him. He didn’t press her for more information but instead sat patiently, waiting.

Turning her head slightly, she murmured over her shoulder, “Go back to sleep. You’ve had a tiresome few days.”

 

* * *

 

 

 **Later in the day, Jamie had a taste of what Claire’s daily life consisted of** : being a travelling healer, she only went to where the need was highest and, given the remoteness of this part of the Highlands, people from all across the MacKenzie and Fraser lands would turn to her for medical assistance. From what she had told him, she had already been settled at the base of Craigh Na Dun for only a week, but had seen well over a hundred patients. A bit slow, at first, but after the speculation of witchcraft died down a bit, more patients began to flock at Claire Beauchamp’s door.

Although she had told him to sleep, he hadn’t; instead, he laid with eyes wide open, watching her as she tended to each patient. How wonderful this woman was, he had realized as he took note of how she treated them. She was respectful, kind, and understanding. If someone was in pain, she would reassure them that everything would be better soon, and within moments, the patient was on their way. The last patient of the day, in particular, had caught Jamie’s eye.

He was a small boy, not much older than eight or nine, with honey-blonde hair and red-rimmed bright green eyes. The boy had lifted his arm to reveal a large gash on his forearm, about half an inch deep. Instead of asking him how he got the injury, or chastising him for not being more careful around sharp objects, Claire took him by the hand and sat him down on a stool. She’d given him sweet rolls to snack on and even slipped in a sip or two of whiskey as she sewed him up, murmuring encouraging words as she did so. Within the hour, the boy was on his way home with instructions from Claire on how his parents need to remove the stitches.

The way that she interacted with the frightened lad made Jamie’s heart flutter in his chest; how exceedingly compassionate and tender she had been as she sewed up the wound, telling the boy stories of witches and wizards and magic. It was clear to him then that she was meant to be not only a healer, but a _mother_ . His thoughts jumped immediately to his own mother, and he could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. _Too soon_.

“Is something wrong?” Claire asked suddenly, turning from her place at the table to face him. She made her way to him in two strides and sat beside him on the cot, tugging the blankets back from his leg--stopping, however, when Jamie laid a hand on hers.

“It isna my leg,” he said softly.

She looked at him, eyes filled with concern as she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, Jamie.” 

“My mother…” he paused and took a deep breath. “She’s sick, has been for a few months, now.” A curt nod; eyes, pleading for him to continue. “I was sent away for--ah… for _business_ , ken. And while I was gone, she got worse. Eventually, I made it back to see her, before…”

“Oh, dear.” She reached for his face, then. Her thumb ran across his cheek, wiping away the single tear that had fallen and took him into her arms, allowing him to let himself go. More tears fell from his face and onto the shoulder of her gown, soaking the dark material.

A shudder ran through him, a sob rising in his throat. Her one hand was wrapped around his shoulders, the other on his lower back, tracing circles with her palm. Shushing him, as one would a small child, she reached up and drew some pieces of his hair away from his sticky forehead. “There’s nothing more you could’ve done. Well, besides being there for her.”

“I should ha’ been there with her _ev’ry day_ . Told her that I cared, that I _loved_ her--”

“I’m sure she already knew all of that,” she soothed. He hadn’t realized she was rocking him until then, but he found the movement comforting. The tone of her voice turned from sympathetic to questioning. “Do you not have any other family? Someone that you should be returning to?” 

Another sob escaped from between his lips as he realized that they, too, were gone. No, not _gone_ . How could something--some _one_ \--be gone, when they hadn’t even been born yet? How was he able to still remember them? Wouldn’t all of his memories be, technically, in the future?

“They are gone,” he whimpered, his arms gripping Claire’s shoulders tightly as he sought out the comfort of her embrace. “They are truly… _gone_.” 

A moment or so later, after he had shed most of his tears into the arm of her gown, she pulled his head from her shoulder. Brushing the curled ends of his hair from his face, she placed both hands on his cheeks and looked straight into his eyes, a golden honey to a bright cerulean, and murmured, “I understand that there are things you don’t want to tell me yet--about where exactly you’re from and how you got to be at my doorstep last night. But I have to ask you to be completely honest with each me from here on out, and I’ll promise you the same.”

He sniffed once, then nodded, hoping she’d proceed.

She did. “What I have to say is rather strange, but...”

A pause. Her hands were still cupping his face; the stark coldness of them, as compared to the warmness he felt just moments before as she held him in her arms, was like the rush of a cold wind on a sweltering hot day. He felt as if he would lean into it as a cat would when being scratched behind the ears. A quirk of the corner of his lips and another nod was his reply, for he felt if he said anything then, it would be completely irrelevant to her statement.

“I can’t help but feel like... we’ve met before.”

“I’ve thought the same thing,” he smiled larger, wrapping his hands around her wrists. “Although I dinna ken the _when and where_ quite yet.”

She shook her head, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “Well, if you _do_ solve the puzzle, be sure to inform me of your results.”

He hadn’t noticed their position until that moment: her thighs on either side of his own, straddling him. Her hands on his face, leaning so close to him he could feel her breath waft over his face. It smelled like cheese and wine and honey and Claire.

Before he could say anything, however, she had repositioned herself to be standing beside him. She leaned over to redress his wound. When the moment passed, he chastised himself for not kissing her.

 _Damn you, man,_ he thought to himself. _You’ve known the woman not even a day and you’re already being soppy. You barely know anything_ about _her._

“You’re healing rather nicely,” she sighed, peeling off the last of the bandages. “In a few days time, you can put your weight on the leg.” There was a pause before her next statement, a catch in her throat causing her to cough once uncomfortably. “You should be able to leave in a week’s time.”

The air in the room made it clear: _neither of them wanted that._


End file.
